American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E7 - Boys Don't Cry
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 7: Happy Birthday to Tate, past and present. He fights at school when he starts freshman year while living. Dead, he fights with... Michael? And there's a really good reason why neither of them touch Mama Constance's liquor stash. Weddings, therapy, & even more high school. Written in the style of the show for the avid fan, not the faint-of-heart. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Birthday Ghosts

This is** Episode 7 **of American Horror Story season 1.5 - Murder House Revisited. If you haven't already, you should probably read the previous episodes or you'll probably be confused. Check my Profile to find them.

* * *

**1983**

It was getting late. Mama had gone to put Beau in his room for the night but she never came back to the kitchen. Tate and Adelaide had gorged themselves on birthday cake: Tate had just turned 6 and he had the number candle to prove it. But he got bored with the cake a lot sooner than his sister did. He wanted to play with his new Millennium Falcon toy. So he ran off with the plastic spaceship in one hand and the spent candle in the other.

He ran down the halls noisily guiding the Star Wars space craft through the house. He found mama in the sitting room but he stopped at the doorway. She was laying down on the loveseat and there was a half-empty bottle on the floor near her hand. He'd learned to leave her alone when she was like that. He moved along quickly and quietly, in a direct line to the basement.

"Mrs. Nora," he said as he bounded down the stairs, skipping the past couple of steps with a giant leap. "Mrs. No- oh!"

He'd nearly run right into a man in a white doctor's coat. Tate looked up at the dark-haired man. The doctor squinted down at him in a hazy, slightly affronted manner.

"Who are you?" said the doctor. "What are you doing here?"

Tate was just beginning to wonder if he was in trouble when Mrs. Nora swept in. She crouched down next to the boy and smiled at him reassuringly. She put an arm around him.

"Darling," she said to the doctor. "This is Tate. He's the one I told you about. Tate?" She smiled again and tears glimmered in her eyes. "This is my husband, Doctor Charles Montgomery."

The man and child looked at each other again. Nora started to dab at the frosting on the boy's cheeks with her lacy handkerchief, unobtrusively cleaning him up.

"Ah," said Charles. His vague look lingered but the irritation went away. "I see." Then he looked closer at the little boy. "I see."

"It's my birthday," Tate told him. He held up his birthday candle. "I'm six."

"Are you really?" asked Nora, like it was the best thing she had ever heard. "Such a big number. You're simply growing too fast."

Charles peered at the child for a few more moments like he was trying to sort something out. Then he wandered off into the shadows without another word. Tate thought him odd but he certainly wasn't the strangest thing the boy had seen around the house.

"I had cake," he said to Nora. "See my candle?" He showed the number 6 candle just to her.

She cradled his little hand in both of hers but she barely glanced at the messy candle. Her eyes wanted his. "Promise me something, my precious boy."

He looked at her with open interest.

Tears trickled down her pale cheeks. "Stay just as sweet as you are. No matter how many birthdays you have."

Tate's nose wrinkled. "I'm not sweet. That's just the frosting."

She laughed and sobbed at the same time, she found his honesty so beautiful. "What was I thinking?" Then she eyed him a bit more critically. "But I do believe a washrag is in order if you want to be less sweet. Don't you?"

He didn't want to wash but he could tell she wanted him to say yes. So he nodded, thinking if he let her clean him up she would stop being so sad. Sure enough, she smiled. That made it worth putting up with being cleaned up.

With his mother staying drunk most of the time since daddy 'left', Nora had become almost a full-time nanny to him. He filled a hole in her existence and she sheltered him from his. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement that would end too soon, when the bank foreclosed on the house.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**2018**

Tate was up early on the day of his party. He got underfoot while Chad was making breakfast and talked endlessly about the party through the meal. He ate little and when it looked like everyone was nearly done he squirmed in his seat, looking expectant.

"Can we decorate now?" he asked when the wait became too much to bear.

Chad eyed him. "No. The party isn't until this afternoon. I have a cake to make and appetizers to organize. We're not decorating until eleven."

Tate was crushed by the flat denial. Tears sprang to his eyes and he sulked at his barely-touched breakfast.

"If you need something to occupy yourself with until then," said Chad without sympathy. "I have a list of chores and repairs that need doing."

"You're going make me do chores on my birthday?" Tate said incredulously. A tear leaked out.

"No," Patrick said in a tone that suggested Tate should know that. "He's just giving you a hard time."

Chad rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm not making you do chores. Not unless you pester me like you did while I was trying to cook earlier."

"Let's go play chess," Tate said to Patrick, smudging his other eye with his sweater sleeve to grind away the unnecessary tear.

Chad preferred it if Tate stayed away. If the boy was in the kitchen during prep, things would take twice as long and would be three times as messy. So the Patrick and Tate left the kitchen, to keep themselves entertained and out of Chad's creative path, and Chad set to work. *

_(* Author's Note: There is a scene chopped here, both for length and because it's really not for everyone. You can find it listed in my Profile under **American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E7-5 - Hook**. I'd link it but the HTML won't stick.)  
_

The family regrouped two hours later in the dining room. Then and only then did Chad allow the decorating to commence. The dark-haired man got them started then he left Pat to oversee the decorating while he ran upstairs to change into nicer clothes. Then he went back down to the kitchen to finalize and plate things. By the time the doorbell rang he had nearly everything in order. He didn't stop what he was doing at the ring; he predicted, accurately, that Tate would answer it.

Sure enough the boy came hurtling down the hall and got to the door just seconds after it rang. He yanked it wide open. "Hi!"

Mama and Michael stood on the other side along with Father Jeremiah. Michael was dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks so Tate didn't feel so weird about Chad's insisting he dress in a similar fashion. The other boy had a fancy wrapped box in his hands that looked suspiciously like the same ones Mama used to give Tate Christmas clothes in. After her last gift, he wasn't sure he wanted another one from her. Ever.

"Come on in. You can put that on the dining room table," said Tate - Ethan to the group - with a wave in the general direction of the room down the hall. "Come on!"

He led the group to the dining room where the prevailing color was black. Chad had worked in as much tasteful white as he could in the forms of artistic overlays, ribbons, and accents. There was black and white confetti on the table. The black balloons had Happy Birthday printed on them in white. It still looked fairly funereal, even with the streamers, but it did look elegant.

"What an interestin' color choice," Constance remarked delicately as she took it all in.

Michael shoved the present up on the table next to the stack of three black-wrapped ones that were already there. "Why's everything black?"

"I like black," said Ethan.

"Look who's he-ere," sang Chad from the doorway.

He sent a quick, wide-eyed look Ethan's way as he entered. Ben came in behind him and the birthday boy was all smiles. Then Hayden followed him in and she had her baby with her, all dressed up fancy and clean for once. Ethan's smile faded to a curious look as he glanced from Ben to Hayden, then to Chad.

"Hi," Ethan said, looking to Ben and his company again with a polite smile. He knew when it was time to ask questions and when it was time to pretend. "Thanks for coming, Doctor Harmon."

"Constance," Chad said, ignoring the daggers in her look. "You know Doctor Harmon and his, ahem, family." The two exchanged a look before he shifted his smile to the priest. "Father Jeremiah, this is Ben Harmon and Hayden. And their-" He side-longed a glance at the baby. "Daughter."

To Jeremiah all three seemed normal enough. They were dark-haired, pale but otherwise healthy-looking. To him, Shelly was a porcelain doll of a tot, calm and observant with pale blue eyes. The priest smiled at the family.

"A pleasure to meet you," he said.

Constance thawed a smile, remembering her manners when she heard his. She kept glancing at Hayden and the baby. "Ben," she greeted distractedly. She didn't greet Hayden.

Ben put a small package wrapped in green on the table with the other gifts. It and the festive birthday balloon paper on Constance's gift stuck out in stark contrast to the primarily-black room.

"Is it time for cake?" asked Ethan.

Chad glanced around. "We have to wait for Patrick and Mrs. Harvey. She and her girls are freshening up."

Michael looked a little nervous and stepped closer to Mama Constance and Father Jeremiah. He didn't want Patrick to yell at him again.

"You have a lovely child," Jeremiah said to Hayden and Ben.

"Thanks," said Hayden. She fussed with the baby's frilly white skirt. "Her name's Shelly. She'll be a year old this Halloween."

The priest experienced a strong sense of déjà vu and lost his train of thought. Fortunately another group of guests arrived, sparing him the social fail. The newest arrivals were a woman in who looked to be in her early 40s and two girls, one about 10 and the other roughly Michael and Ethan's age. They all looked nervous. Patrick followed them in.

The oldest girl carried a small package wrapped in old newspaper comics and string. She seemed to have forgotten she was holding it until her mother whispered something to her. Then she put it on the table near the other gifts.

"Mrs. Harvey," said Chad with a host smile. "It's so _nice_ to see you and your girls. We're just about to have cake." He looked at Hayden then. "Can your..." He glanced at Shelly. "Baby have cake and ice cream?"

"She can," said Hayden. "I don't know that she'll eat much of it." She glanced down at the floor. "You'll probably want to put something down on the floor. She _will_ make a mess."

Chad tried not to flinch and failed. "I'll bring something with the cake. Patrick? I need your help."

"Is there anything I can do?" volunteered Jeremiah. Constance eyed him but he didn't notice it.

"Aren't you sweet?" Chad smiled ingratiatingly. "Thank you _so_ much but no. We've got it covered. Ethan? Why don't you hand out the treat bags over there."

The boy oriented on the bags and went to fetch them from the sideboard. While Chad and Patrick left to go get food he handed out the plain black bags starting with the youngest girl first, then oldest, then Michael. Chad, the ever-prepared host, had enough of the little bags that even Shelly could have one with yet another left over.

Ethan took his to the table where he dumped it out in a small pile. The other children did the same while the adults watched. Hayden set Shelly down and sorted through it herself before giving it to the tot, who instinctively seemed to know the bag was both hers and filled with joy.

From the sidelines it would look like an ordinary child's birthday party. Only the priest and Michael - and possibly Shelly - were under that impression.

...

In the kitchen things weren't going so well. The refreshments were fine, laid out and ready to go on the center island. There was a sheet cake iced in black that Chad had painstakingly piped with white filigree so it looked like something artsy from one of those cake shows rather than something that would feature at a child's Halloween party. There were white and dark chocolate-covered pretzels, black M&Ms, even corn chips in regular and black that Chad had hand-picked from a bag he had intended to use for Halloween.

No, the refreshments weren't the problem. The trouble started when Patrick said on entering the kitchen: "Isn't it a sin to be an asshole to a priest?"

It was the verbal equivalent of throwing the gloves down. The fight was on.

"I was perfectly nice to him," Chad defended.

Patrick cocked a brow. "Did I say anything about you?"

"Don't give me that bullshit," said Chad as he went to gather the cake server and other utensils. "We both know exactly what you meant."

"You're not the only one who can play the passive-aggressive bitch game."

"Play? Oh, please! You wrote the rule book for _that _game," Chad huffed. "Take these."

He shoved the armload of flatware at Patrick, who did his best to take it all even though he wasn't ready for it. He would have managed too if not for a stray dessert fork that slipped through his grasp and bounced off the surface of the island. It landed right on the cake, in the bottom corner. They both looked at it.

"Wonderful," Chad said. "Just great."

"It's not that bad," said Patrick. He set down the rest of the flatware and leaned in close to the damaged area of the cake. "I've got it."

"Done mess it up more!"

Patrick paused the surgical operation of removing the fork to glare at Chad. "I've got this. I've handled a lot worse. Really." He went to pluck it out.

"You're ruining the icing!" Chad said urgently, hovering right next to his elbow.

Patrick was reminded of the crafting disaster and suffered a Tate moment himself. He grabbed a handful of cake from the messed up corner and, turning on Chad, went to smash it into his mouth to stop him saying anything else. The shorter man tried to duck but his reflexes were too slow. Patrick smeared black frosting all over the side of Chad's face.

Pat's moment of smug glory faded quickly as reality kicked in. The icing really was ruined now. Chad stared at him. Hard. There was murder in his eyes.

...

A loud crash from the kitchen drew the majority of the party guests that way. Only Hayden stayed behind to keep Shelly entertained and out of trouble. When the rest of the party arrived in the kitchen they found Patrick and Chad kissing, both of them with Ethan's cake smeared on their faces. Chad's attempt at retaliation had gone awry. The reactions of the assembly ranged from surprise to disgust but it was the birthday boy's giggle that brought the couple back to the here-and-now.

They separated; Pat had the decency to look chagrined but Chad tried to muster some dignity even though he had black frosting smeared from his cheek to his jaw.

"A fork fell into the cake," he explained. "But we'll have this fixed in a jiffy."

Patrick went to the sink to wash up. Constance sidled over to the cake and used her presence to crowd Chad away from it. There were M&Ms scattered all the floor: The bowl was the noisy casualty in the struggle that had occurred when Chad had grabbed for the cake in his counter attack. Constance picked up a pastry knife and cut away the destroyed lower portion of the cake.

"I would have thought you of all people would know how to host a little boy's birthday party, Chad," she said lightly as she worked. Her movements were clipped, restrained. Controlled but only just so. "Paula Deane didn't teach you much about hostin' for the little ones, I suppose. But never you fear. I've got this just... about... there. Finished."

She smiled at her handiwork and smiled brighter at Chad's glower. "You have a little somethin' there," she said to him, wagging a finger at his whole face. "Might want to clean that off. Jeremiah? Take the cake to the dinin' table please."

The priest hesitated but when no one objected he lifted it and carefully carried it out of the room. The Harveys followed him. Chad continued to glare at Constance, who continued to order people around now that she'd taken over.

"Michael, Ethan," she said. "You two carry these forks and things in."

While they divvied up the flatware she grabbed the bowl of chips and the pretzels. Then she washed her false smile over the gay couple. "I trust you boys can manage the ice cream at least?"

Neither said anything; their looks said enough. She left with an air of matronly superiority.

"I'm going to tear every home permed hair out of her mangy scalp!" hissed Chad.

Patrick touched his shoulder which calmed him, if only a little. "Not at Tate's party."

Chad glowered at him now but the look was less hostile and more grump. "I hate that withered old cunt!"

"We can get her later," said Pat. "Come on. Let's go take the party back from the old bitch."

...

Taking the party back was easier said than done. Constance wasn't about to step back from the hostess role once she claimed it and short of making a scene there wasn't much Chad could do about it. He managed to beat her to leading the Happy Birthday song but she nabbed the cake server in the meantime, so he dished out ice cream while she portioned out the cake. And while they one-upped each other Patrick hung back. He would rather be chatting with Jeremiah but he didn't want to do anything that would make Chad's mood worse so he sat on Mrs. Harvey's other side from the priest, gave her a polite smile, and ate cake in silence.

"I don't believe we've met," Father Jeremiah said to the woman between them.

"Lorraine Harvey," she said. She almost smiled. "The girls are my daughters."

He assumed she also meant Violet. "So you're a sister of..?"

Lorraine looked puzzled then she realized what he meant. "Friend of the family."

"Ah," said Jeremiah. He looked down at his cake and fiddled with the plate but he wasn't in the mood for sugar. "I'm Father Jeremiah. I live next door with Miss Constance and her godson."

Mrs. Harvey nodded and made a silent oh.

The conversation ground to a halt. By then the children were well into their birthday treats. The youngest girl, Margaret, grew noticeably more animated as she interacted with the other children. Presents came next then Chad was able to direct a couple of party games before the party ended. Even still Constance was openly smug as she and her group left. Chad would have made good on his threat to rip her hair out but Pat caught him in a 'hug' from behind that helped him show some restraint. Ethan saw them out.

The Harvey girls went out of their way to say thanks for the invites, which pacified Chad somewhat but he was still in a pretty foul mood the rest of the evening. He took his social engagements seriously and Constance's infringement on such a rare moment was something he wouldn't forget.

For Tate, though, the party was a great success. He went to bed happy, with a few new toys he didn't need surrounding him (and an unwanted outfit from Chad). The plush Cthulhu Doctor Harmon gave him made him especially happy. He liked the promise on the tag that said the nightmare of an elder god would guard his dreams. He fell asleep with his fingers twined in the soft tentacles. He didn't dream at all that night.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Welcome back to the story. I know this first chapter got ridiculously long. There's another whole mini-chapter that was embedded in this that was cut. I'm sure you noticed that. I don't know if you read it but if you did, I warned you.

So. I don't know about you guys but that was one hell of a birthday party. I didn't go into detail on the presents because it already got way long. If you guys really want to know what Tate got I can tell you but it's nothing incredible. Fortunately Constance wasn't trying for a poignant gift this time. Whew.

This episode's title, _Boys Don't Cry_, is a film about a girl who pretends to be a boy in order to win the love of a girl and everyone winds up getting murdered by a psycho friend of the love interest. It's based on a true story.

Stay tuned for the next chapter, where we explore another flashback. Let's see if we can make it through this one without any boys crying.


	2. Chapter 2 - It's a Good Life

**1994**

Patrick was an only child, born to a retired military man and a traditional woman. Good-looking, charismatic and generally pleasant, Pat was popular in school. In high school he was on the wrestling team and was on the student council. He was one of those boys everybody liked: He was a shoe-in with the popular crowd but his generous nature and outgoing disposition made him friends in all corners, from jock to nerd.

He had no shortage of girls interested in him. Good-looking as well as nice, he came onto the high school radar the moment he set foot in the school. The attention was flattering and exciting. Pat dated several girls over the course of his high school career, one at a time at first but he found it hard to say no when a pretty girl made herself available. There was more than one drama that blew up in the lunch room over who was _really_ Patrick's girlfriend.

Then in the summer before senior year Pat met a new boy in his neighborhood down at the convenience store arcade nook. They got to talking video games and the boy, Terrence, invited him over to see his collection of Nintendo games. The black-haired teen was staying with his dad and uncle in an apartment complex behind the store, visiting for the summer since his parents were split up.

No one was home when Terrence let them in with his key. The place was a two-bedroom wreck. Pillows and blankets wadded on the couch were the teenager's temporary bed. They passed that and the filthy kitchen. Terrence led the way into one of the bedrooms. A big Star Wars blanket covered the room's window, making it hard to see so he turned on the bedside lamp.

The floor was covered in clothes, magazines, empty beer cans, vodka bottles and all kinds of other personal belongings. The closet couldn't shut because of the trail of dirty clothing wedging it open. Terrence went over to that closet and started digging around. Pat looked about the floor, amazed and slightly repulsed by the mess. There were all sorts of interesting things worked into the junk: He saw what looked like a fake pussy and right beside the bed was a palm-sized plastic coffin.

Patrick picked up the coffin and opened the lid. A little vampire popped out with a teeny little penis sticking out of his crotch.

"What the fuck?" Pat laughed.

Terrence glanced over. "Oh. It pees if you put water in it."

Patrick looked over at him with an odd expression. It seemed like a very strange thing to own, to him. It seemed an even stranger thing to leave laying on the floor. But then the only thing he'd ever seen on the floor at his house were rugs and occasionally shoes.

Terrence just shrugged. He'd grown up around his uncle's habits so he didn't think anything of it. "I didn't buy it," he said and went back to his search. "Hey. Come here."

Pat closed the coffin and set it back down then picked his way across the littered floor. Terrence pulled a small plastic crate filled with games from the shelf. A loose stack of magazines fell to the floor when he moved the box. They scattered everywhere.

Patrick looked down at the fallen media and was surprised to see naked people. He'd never seen porn before and there was quite an interesting variety on the floor that blew the fake pussy away. He crouched down and picked up the nearest one.

"What is this stuff?" he asked, amazed. The magazine he held featured a man and two women. The photographer had attempted to capture classy with the fake fur and faux pearls but didn't quite manage it.

"My uncle's porn collection," Terrence said. Like the coffin, it was old news to him. But he found his friend's reaction to it entertaining. "He's got a _lot_ of it. He's, like, crazy for porn."

Patrick leafed through the magazine then dropped it and reached for another one. That one had a harder cover and was a how-to manual involving a sex swing. Terrence sat down with his new friend and set the crate of games down, freeing his hands to dig around in the scattered smut.

"Here, check this out," he said.

He handed Patrick a photographic study of the kama sutra. They explored that together, laughing at some of the positions and finding some impressive. Terrence wasn't understating his uncle's love of porn: He had all kinds of dirty material. He didn't restrict himself to much. He had hetero magazines, magazines of muscle-bound men in leather with other men; there were magazines featuring only women. He even had one really nasty one that featured old people.

It was the start of a very educational summer. Terrence - and by proxy an uncle Patrick never met - introduced him to all kinds of new ideas. When they got bored with the literature the friends raided Uncle's video cache. Again the man's tastes didn't stick to any single genre. Pat would always remember the first porn video he watched that included gay action: _The Stud_. The main character fucked every person he met, male or female, often more than one at a time. The boys joked about that video for a long time after it ended. Joking turned to play-acting. Play-acting shifted to reality. Pat had experienced oral sex before but Terrence knew his body the way only another boy could. It changed everything for him.

The fun ended when Patrick made the mistake of telling a friend about Terrence's uncle. That friend told his brother, the brother told their parents who, in turn, told Patrick's parents. When they learned of the peeing vampire and other delights, they grounded Pat to the house for the rest of the summer. Terrence moved back to his mother's home when summer was over. Patrick never saw him again but he would never forget those hot months.

When school started Pat had to pretend like nothing had changed. But it had. He had changed. He was smart enough to understand that he needed to pretend that nothing was different but it was frustrating. Stifling. He found himself watching other boys in the locker room; staring too long, copping 'accidental' feels while wrestling. It wouldn't be until after college that he would feel free to experiment again. Not until after his dad passed away.

...

**2009**

Patrick was getting married.

He and Chad had been seeing each other for nearly five years and had been sharing an apartment for a year. The state of California had legalized gay marriage but there was rumor that the law could be overturned in future court proceedings before the year was out so they'd decided to take the plunge while they could.

Chad had been the one to propose. He agonized over it for weeks with every friend they had. He came up with plan after plan, discarding them in fits of manic-depressive anxiety that tried their collective patience. In the end he proposed at their favorite fondue restaurant, in front of most of their friends and local family, who were hiding behind menus and potted plants until they were sure the answer was 'yes'. Then there was celebration and laughter. It was a highlight of their lives.

Pat glanced in the dressing mirror in his staging room and straightened his tie for the fifth time. He saw the door open in the reflection. He smiled and sighed.

"Mom," he said, turning to her. "What are you doing? You're supposed to out there, sitting in the front row."

She came over to him, smiling tearfully. She looked like a stranger to him in the fancy mother's gown and makeup she wore. It was one of the only times outside of church that he'd seen her without an apron on. He hadn't seen her in makeup since he was a kid.

"I just wanted to see you one last time before you're married," she said as she hugged him. Her gray beehive only came up to his muscular shoulder. "I'm so proud of you. Your father would be too."

Pat hugged her back but he frowned. "Mom. Dad would've had a heart attack if he knew I was marrying a man."

She looked up at him and fat tears rolled down her face. "Your father would have loved Chad."

"I'm just glad you do," said Patrick. "Now you should go, mom. They'll be starting soon."

His mother kissed him then she had to smudge the lipstick off his face again. Then one more hug and he finally got her out the door. He didn't have time to be nervous - shortly after she left the processional music started. Stepping through the door felt like mounting the top of the first steep hill of an insane roller coaster. The next two years would be the wildest - and last - ride of his life.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

I didn't realize when I wrote this that Pat took up a whole chapter with his back story. But now you know. While Tate was planning his Noble War, Pat was playing with peeing vampires. Talk about different worlds.

Also, I didn't do the math till just now but by the years above, about the time Chad and Patrick moved into Murder House they would have been together for 7 years. Which jives with Pat's cheating. 7 year itch and all.

This chapter's title is also the name of a _Twilight Zone_ original series episode about a kid who could make whatever he wanted real.

Next chapter both Vivien and Tate are upset with Ben. I kind of am too. He doesn't play nice.


	3. Chapter 3 - Girls Don't Cry, Boys Do

**2018**

Vivien and Moira sat at the island in the kitchen. Moira looked concerned. Vivien looked depressed. They both had teacups but neither was touching them: Vivien had her elbows propped on the surface of the island, her fingers laced. Moira had her hands folded in her lap to keep them still. She hated to see Vivien so sad. Especially about him.

"You deserve better," she said. Her words were quiet but filled with controlled anger.

Vivien stirred like a sleeper waking. "Do I?" She sighed heavily and dropped one hand to touch the teacup. She still didn't lift it. "I don't know, Moira. I don't think there is better."

"Well, not here of course," the maid amended. "But-"

"No," interrupted Vivien. "I've actually thought about this before. Every man... every single one I've met was... a disappointment in some major way. Out of all of them, Ben's been the... the least disappointing. And that... that's just..."

She covered her face then and took a deep, shuddery breath. She didn't cry. She thought she would but no tears came. Instead there was a clenching achiness in her chest where the sobs would normally come from. It was a deep hurt that would have made her want to kill herself if she was alive, just to end it. But no tears. The pain spread, dull at the edges. It covered her stomach and made her want to throw up. It was like the tears she wasn't crying were poisoning her insides.

A touch on her shoulder brought her back to the kitchen. She lowered her hands and saw Moira there, concern and sorrow etched in the lines of her face.

"Vivien?"

Vivien tried to say something so she wouldn't worry but her throat locked up so tight it hurt. She gave her head a little shake. Finally a single tear fell from one eye, grazing her cheek before it hit her blouse where it soaked in and was gone.

"Do you want to go see the baby?" the maid asked quietly.

Vivien nodded and together they left the kitchen, Moira's arm loosely draped around her upper back for comfort.

...

Tate sat in the rocking chair, rocking and rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth. He kept a steady beat by keeping both feet on the floor and pushing with just his toes. He was slumped down in the chair with his hands folded over his middle. He stared at the door.

Eventually it opened and Dr. Harmon came him. He looked surprised when he saw his patient already in his office.

"You're early, Tate," he said. He set his cup of coffee down on his desk. "I wasn't expecting you for another half hour."

Tate smiled but it was a fake one that didn't touch his dark eyes, which were bright and intense. "I wasn't expecting you to show up at my party with a zombie baby and a dead college kid. I guess we're both full of surprises."

Ben didn't like the vibe he was getting from the teenager. He rolled his office chair around in front of his desk and sat down in it, facing Tate.

"I didn't realize it would bother you if I brought them," he said. "I apologize if it did. I thought you and Hayden were friends."

"Just because I talk to someone doesn't make them my friend," said Tate. He wasn't blinking much. "I don't really care though, doc. I was just giving you shit." He turned on that hollow smile again, like a light switch.

Ben nodded slowly. "If that's not the issue then what is?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm getting the sense that there's something bothering you."

Tate's fake smile dwindled to a dry, more real expression. "Ya think?"

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" asked the doctor.

The teen stopped rocking and sat forward a little. "Yeah. Fuck you."

That was a surprise. "Okay," the therapist said carefully. "Why do you feel like telling me that?"

"You wanted Pat and Chad to drug me," said Tate through clenched teeth, showing a flash of the underlying anger he was hiding. Like lightning before the storm.

"Tate," said Ben. His demeanor stayed constant but inside he was on full alert. "I told them what their options were-"

"Drugging my food was never an option!" Tate yelled. Tears spilled over, making him madder but he didn't bother wiping them away because there would just be more. "You're lucky they aren't jerks like you. If they'd done it I'd be really pissed!"

Ben processed that tidbit of information quickly and saw it for the gem it was. "It was just a suggestion and it wasn't even mine," he said. "Chad's the one who brought the idea up when I told him how much resistance you'd shown toward medication."

Tate eyed him warily, not entirely believing him but sensing some truth to the statement. "Why would he do that?"

Ben shrugged. "I think he was just putting it out there to show me I hadn't thought of everything."

Tate wasn't sure what to think. He only had the medication story from Patrick and he knew Pat didn't usually sit in on sessions with the doctor. It was possible he'd given Tate his personal slant on a conversation that he hadn't even heard. But Tate was still mad at Ben, either way.

"I don't want to do dream therapy with you anymore," he said. It was the quickest way he could think of to punish the doctor for trampling on his trust.

Ben could see it for the move it was. "If that's how you feel," he said with a reluctant air. "But I really think we've been making progress."

More tears ran down Tate's cheeks as his feelings got all tangled up by the subtle emotional hook the therapist embedded in those words. It didn't help that Tate had been enjoying the sleepovers and personal attention. He suddenly felt like he was punishing himself. His emotions spiraled wildly as he tried to sort out what he should think, feel and do. He mashed the heels of his hands against his eyes and tried to grind away the useless flow of tears.

"Why don't we take a break tonight," the doctor suggested gently. "You can take a week and decide if you want to keep going."

Tate swallowed a sob and hunched into himself, arms dropping limply to his lap. The sob came back up and brought a few cousins with it, along with a fresh round of tears. Ben watched him for a moment, trying to decide the best next course of action. Then he remembered something Tate had done while Ben was still alive, when they were out for coffee together. He took Tate's hand.

The simple gesture sliced through the woe. Tate hiccupped and sniffled wetly and looked at Ben's hand over his own. He had to sniffle again because his nose was running from all the crying. He turned his hand so he could hold the therapist's hand in return. He didn't know what else to do. He had expected Ben to argue with him and he knew what he would have done if he had. But he hadn't.

"I'll come by your room tonight," said Ben, giving the teen's hand a reassuring squeeze. "You can tell me then whether or not you want to do dream therapy. All right?"

Tate nodded mutely and snurfled again. Ben used his free hand to grab the tissue box and offered it to him.

This time, Tate took one.

...

"..so he said he wanted to stop doing the lucid dreaming therapy," Ben finished his summary for Chad.

They were in Ben's office, seated in the spots they typically sat in when they met - Ben in his chair and Chad on the sofa.

Chad rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the other hand supporting his elbow."Well, I don't know how he found out," he said. It wasn't quite the truth; he suspected Patrick had said something to Tate about the pills. But Chad wasn't going to say anything until he had a chance to talk to Pat about it. "But I don't think that should mean that the therapy stops. Whatever you're doing, it's helped. It's been weeks since he's had those ghastly night terrors."

Dr. Harmon shrugged and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "It's his choice. I can't force therapy on him," he lied. He gave the other man a smile meant to reassure. "I don't think you have anything to worry about though. I believe he was just reacting out of anger. Once he's had a chance to cool off and think, he'll see our way is the best way."

Chad didn't look reassured but he felt it more than he showed. "So what is going on with you and that college kid?"

The question fell distinctly into a realm of personal that Ben didn't normally allow in his office but since this wasn't a formal session he decided to field it. "History that needs to be settled."

"Do tell."

"She's trying to get me to believe that baby is mine," Ben said.

Chad folded his arms loosely, one brow arching. "Is it?"

Ben shook his head. "No. I don't know what it is or where she got it from. She won't tell me. She just keeps insisting it's ours."

"So why don't you just tell her to go away?"

"I did, a few years ago," said Ben. "And she sent that baby in."

"Ohhh."

Ben nodded. "So... I want to figure out what her game is."

"What about Vivien?"

That was a touchy subject. "She and I are... having some time apart."

Chad smirked. "She kicked you out."

"She did not," Ben denied. "I decided to stay in here for a while."

Chad wasn't convinced. "No better way to patch things up," he said sarcastically. "You're going to open doors you can't close again."

Ben smiled confidently. "I know what I'm doing."

Chad favored him an 'oh really' look. "Somehow I just don't believe that."

"I've got it handled," reasserted Ben, finding the overt lack of faith mildly irritating.

"Right," said Chad. "When it comes to juggling women, no man has it 'handled'. You're a three-ring-circus waiting to happen."

"Just call me the ringmaster," Ben said.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

References to the "(dead) college kid" are an homage to _Tucker & Dale vs. Evil_. I know I've mentioned the film before. Have I mentioned it's one of my faves?

This chapter was one I was called out on grumbling at Ben as I was writing it. Self-conscious now, when I edited it I managed to at least keep my cursing at Ben under my breath. He really pisses me off sometimes. Like, most of the time. Funnily enough I just wrote a flashback to Ben's youth right before editing this chapter.

Next chapter: Michael took a large chunk of the chapter in flashbacks and present day. Billie Dean and Violet also get some screen time.


	4. Chapter 4 - Eat, Drink, and?

**2015**

The first time Jeremiah had to insert himself between Constance and her grandson was just two months after he joined their family. He'd offered to go to the store and pick up some groceries. He was doing more and more of the errand running but he didn't mind. He liked to be of assistance. It gave him purpose.

When he let himself into the house he could hear her screaming immediately. He hastily set the bags down and kicked the door shut before charging up the stairs. He followed the sound to its source: Michael's bedroom. She had the boy cornered and was towering over him, screaming in a wild rage, raining open-palmed blows down on his head and shoulders. His howling rendered them both incoherent.

Father Jeremiah couldn't tell what she was so angry about but it was clear she was dangerously out of control. He moved in and reached for her; he knew he couldn't possibly speak and be heard over the din and yelling would only add to it. He hesitated then touched her arm.

"Constance," he said quietly.

She felt his touch and she got a funny expression on her face when she looked at him. He kept his hand on her and continued to drain her vital energy. Her eyes fogged and she started to fall. Jeremiah caught her and gently swept her from her feet. He put her on Michael's bed and then went back over to the boy.

"Michael?" he said as he knelt down. "Don't be afraid. I'm with you now."

Michael uncurled just a little and looked up at him with wounded uncertainty. His cheeks were mottled red and stained with tears. "Why did M-Mama Constance go to s-sleep?" he asked in an uncharacteristically small voice.

Jeremiah glanced over at her unconscious form. "Mama Constance needed a rest," he said. He looked back to the boy. "Sometimes even grown-ups need time outs. When she wakes up she'll feel better." He paused. "What happened? Why was she mad at you?"

Michael's dark eyes filled with fresh tears. "I poured her helper-juice in the sink."

Helper-juice. "You poured Mama Constance's... The stuff she puts in her tea?"

The little boy nodded tearfully.

"Ah," said Father Jeremiah. "Why did you do that?"

"She was being mean and talking slurry."

"I understand," said the priest. He put an arm around Michael's shoulders and gave him a bracing hug. "In the future let's not throw out things that don't belong to us."

"But-" the boy started but Jeremiah shushed him.

"There are ways of doing things, Michael," he told his charge. "Trying to force a person into something they don't want to do hardly ever works. They have to want to change. Imagine if I told you that you were too old to play with toys."

Michael's eyes rounded in horror at the thought.

Jeremiah nodded, glad the boy was following along. "Now imagine if I took all of your toys right now and threw them away."

Michael frowned darkly. "I'd be mad!"

The priest nodded again. "Exactly. It wouldn't make you ready to give up your toys, would it?"

The boy thought about it then shook his head. "Nuh-uh. I'd just be mad at you."

"All right," said Jeremiah, satisfied there was a lesson learned. He gave Michael another squeeze. "I'm going to put Mama Constance in her bed to finish her nap. Then you and I will put away the groceries and make her a nice dinner. That'll make her happy."

Michael looked up at him, hopeful. Jeremiah smiled, gave him one last pat and then got up. He went over and gathered up Constance and took her to her room. He laid her down and made sure she was comfortable. Later he would tell her that she'd simply fainted. She would believe it; he could smell the alcohol on her. Passing out was well within reason. It wouldn't be the worst lie Jeremiah had told in his lifetime.

**...**

**2018 **

There was a hint of fall in the air that afternoon. Something about the scents the wind carried and the pitch of the sunlight through weakening leaves whispered of the dying season. Even the birds seemed subdued, with only one or two individuals giving sporadic chirps to remind the bugs that they were still a nearby threat.

It was still warm out so Billie Dean and Father Jeremiah sat in the shade of the back porch while Constance gave Michael a painting lesson further out in the garden. The pair were attempting to paint a still-life of the fountain back there. Constance had her easel and was working in acrylics while Michael had a child-sized plastic easel and watercolors to use. He put as much serious concentration into his work as she did, occasionally glancing at her so he could mimic her moves.

Father Jeremiah wasn't watching them. He was looking at the old Victorian next door. His lemonade was sweating on the table between him and Billie Dean, forgotten since he'd set it there. She noticed his preoccupation but hadn't remarked on it; Constance did the same thing regularly. The medium could feel the pull of the place as well. She just had more desire to ignore it. Eventually she set her own half-full glass down and laced her fingers together.

"I'm going to be leaving in a couple of days," she said. "I was planning to stop next door before I leave. Would you like to go with me? I would really appreciate the escort."

Jeremiah pulled his attention off the house and looked at her. "Of course, Billie Dean. Whenever you'd like."

"How about now?"

They weren't exactly doing anything pressing so he shrugged. "All right. I'll go tell Constance."

Billie Dean got up. "I'll grab my purse," she said and went inside.

The priest went over to where the artists were painting. "Looks good," he admired, not specifying a single piece. "It'll be interesting to see what they look like when they're finished."

"I tell you this boy's goin' to be an artist," Constance praised her grandson. "He has such an eye for color."

The two canvases were a contrast of styles: Constance's was a precise collection of delicate strokes that captured the shadows playing on the stone fountain. The flowers in the background were dabs and impressions full of color that bore a resemblance to the design on her flowy blouse. Michael's painting favored bold, long strokes and unfinished centers. He used green most, both for the background and to outline the fountain in a wide flat path. Blue water droplets hovered over it in a straight line.

"What's that beside the fountain?" asked Jeremiah, pointing to a black blob behind the boxy fountain.

Michael smiled. "That's my friend."

"Your friend?" asked Father Jeremiah. He looked closer at the painting. The figure was just a black blob. "What's your friend's name?"

Constance was looking at the painting now too.

"I don't know his name. He doesn't talk," said Michael, oblivious to the attention. He was trying to paint a bird and it wasn't coming out the way he wanted. "I'm busy. Shh."

Constance coughed a smile away. She found the precociousness cute. "An artist needs his space," she told the priest apologetically.

"Hm," said Jeremiah. He wasn't done with the subject but it could wait. For now. "Billie Dean and I are going to run next door."

"I want to go!" Michael exclaimed, forgetting his interest in painting.

"No," said Father Jeremiah. "We're just going over so Billie Dean can have a last chat before she has to leave. You should stay here with Mama Constance and finish your painting."

Michael frowned. "I'm done painting. I want to play with Ethan."

Jeremiah looked at Constance to get a feeling for what she was thinking. She looked back at him and her jaw set.

"All right," she sighed. She put set down her palette and rinsed her brush. "I suppose I can just... paint later. Of course the light won't be the same. But what does that matter? Let's go wash up, Michael. We can't go over wearin' paint."

Michael cheered, ignoring the plainly imbedded guilt trip. He darted into the house to wash his hands. Constance's irritation grew as she tidied up the painting supplies. She closed the paints briskly and gathered the trays up then paused to look sternly at Father Jeremiah.

"Don't make me be the bad guy," she told him. "You can make 'no' stick just as well as I can."

She didn't wait for him to say anything but went directly to the house.

...

The group went next door, with Constance carrying a plate of cookies for the neighbors. Billie Dean had messaged ahead so it was Violet who answered the door when they rang the bell. She smiled, first at the medium then at the rest of the small group.

"Hey," she said. She stepped back to make room. "Come on inside."

Constance took the lead, sweeping in to shove the plate into Violet's hands. "See that your uncles get a few of these, dear," she said, neatly providing the girl a quick back story as well as an explanation for Father Jeremiah's benefit.

Violet accepted the plate and took it to the kitchen where she left it on the counter. And that's when she really noticed Michael. He was near the cookie plate, eyeing it longingly and he looked so much like the child version of Tate that Violet thought for a moment that it was him.

"I want one," the boy said.

"Those are for the neighbors, Michael," said Constance.

Violet looked closer at the boy and while she could convince herself that she saw differences between him and Tate, it was a stretch. Then it sank in that he had to be the baby her father was supposed to raise. Not much of a baby any longer. It was weird looking at a child that was essentially her brother. Half-brother. Half. Tate.

"Violet?" Billie Dean said. "Could I speak with you a moment?"

The girl realized she'd been staring at the little boy and corrected that with a nod to her friend. "Yeah." She blinked and chided herself inwardly on letting herself get so distracted. "Let me grab my cigarettes."

She picked up the pack and a lighter and followed the medium out of the room. She lit a cigarette and exhaled slow and steady. "Wow."

"You haven't met him before?"

Violet shook her head and exhaled smoke. "No. I mean... I knew he was, you know? I knew she was- Constance was taking care of him. I just never really thought about what it would be like to meet him. I guess I never expected to see him here."

Billie Dean smiled gently. She led the way into the sitting room where she took a seat on the long sofa. "Constance told me she doesn't like to bring him here because she's concerned about some of the hostile spirits in the house."

The girl nodded. "She's right. Some of the people here are just assholes."

Billie Dean sat up a little and smoothed her hand over her skirt. "I'm going to be leaving in two days. I have to be in Miami for a book signing Monday."

Violet couldn't hide her disappointment. "Already?"

"I'm afraid so," the medium said. She took the girl's hands. "But please, Violet, contact me _anytime_ you like. You have my email and my IM. I don't know all of the answers but I'm a good listener."

"I still don't know what to do about Tate," Violet said.

Billie Dean gave her hands a squeeze. "I think you do." Then she smiled encouragingly and let go. Her smile faded into a more serious look as she sat back. "Now. There's something else I need to tell you about before I leave."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

At the end of the segment where Father Jeremiah had to pull Constance off Michael, the word count for the story was at 7666. Ha. God and Satan's lucky numbers in one word count.

So. Who thinks Constance put something nasty in the cookies? Show of hands. Next question: How many of you think Chad and Patrick are smart enough not to eat them? And, of course, the real important question: Did anyone else find the cookies before they did?

Next chapter: Cookiegate continues and Ethan and Michael have a play date. What could go wrong?


	5. Chapter 5 - Angels and Demons

**2018 (cont.)**

Shortly after Billie Dean and Violet left the kitchen, Ethan came in. He went straight for the cookies.

"You should ask your daddies first," Constance said. "You don't want to spoil your supper."

The boy stopped short of touching one of the treats and gave her an injured look. There was no reason he could see to deny him one and yet that's what she'd done. His expression gave her a twinge but she couldn't back down.

So instead she offered: "Why don't we make some soap bubbles?"

"I'll get the wands!" Ethan cheered, cookies forgotten.

He started rifling through the kitchen drawers. Michael followed him but didn't feel comfortable digging through someone else's stuff. Patrick might come in and yell. Constance smiled and set to mixing dish soap and water in a jar from the cupboard. While they were all occupied, Father Jeremiah looked out the window at the back yard. The sinkhole was still there.

"I wonder when they're going to fill that in?" he said to himself.

"The contractor's coming by this weekend," said Chad right behind the priest. "You know how it is... Two weeks, two weeks."

Father Jeremiah startled a little; he hadn't noticed the man come into the kitchen. "Oh, hello."

"Hi," Chad smiled, showing lots of teeth. "Would you like something to drink? Or are you content with admiring the view?"

"Er. No, I'm fine," Jeremiah said. He motioned to the window. "Sorry about the-"

"Oh, don't worry about it," Chad dismissed sweetly, even though he would have held it against Jeremiah if he hadn't apologized. "I've been hating that gaping menace since it opened up. It's a _hideous_ eyesore. Our backyard bunghole."

Jeremiah made a sound that fell between a cough and a chuckle. "You know it's odd," he said. "Ever since the earthquake I've been having strange dreams."

"Really?" prompted Chad, genuinely curious. "Like what?"

A flock of bubbles migrated past them. Constance had finished mixing the liquid and both boys were armed with wands. Chad looked over and, seeing the drippy mess, wanted to tell them to take it outside. He checked the impulse. Michael and Tate plus bubbles in a yard with an open sinkhole equaled disaster, no matter who was with them.

"Most of the dreams are similar. There's someone's following me," the priest said. "I can't ever quite see them, which is part of why it's so strange. When I do manage to catch sight of them, I can never make out any details. It's always too dark."

"Maybe it's the devil," Chad said, though privately he wondered if Rubber Man was somehow oozing into Jeremiah's subconscious thoughts. "Isn't that what you priests are supposed to fear?"

"There is no devil," said Father Jeremiah. Chad had unwittingly flipped the man's pedagogue switch. Angels were a sensitive subject for him. "Not a singular entity as such, anyway. There are many fallen angels and demonic spirits. But the concept of a single ruling entity of evil is wholly misconstrued."

Another blast of bubbles coursed between them, followed by a chorus of laughter from the boys. Constance checked Michael's grip on the jar when he dipped his wand; he nearly poured it down his front getting his hand into it.

Chad arched his brows and folded his arms loosely. He didn't like to be schooled, especially by someone younger than himself. "_Satan_, then."

"Christians have muddled Satan's identity so thoroughly he may as well be an urban legend," he said. "And I know it wasn't him I was dreaming about."

"And you're sure of this because..?" said Chad sarcastically, just to give the man a hard time. He found holy rollers tedious at best. Knowing Patrick was attracted to this one made him even more annoying.

"I just know," said Jeremiah. He could give a better explanation but he could tell Chad wasn't looking for a real discussion. So the priest said what most people expected to hear from him. "I've been trained to handle exorcisms. I know my angels - fallen and otherwise - fairly well. Once you know a thing, it's difficult to fear it from afar. It's like seeing a news article about bears and being afraid of being mauled through the television screen."

"Who got mauled by a bear?" Ethan wanted to know.

Of course he would tune in at that point. "No one did," Chad said irritably. Then he noticed the sloppy puddles on the floor. "Oh, for God's sake! Look at what you're _doing_!"

Jeremiah flinched at the blasphemy.

"Chad, they're just-" Constance started.

Chad wasn't in a mood to listen. "_You_ shouldn't have given them the whole thing," he scolded her. He confiscated the jar of remaining liquid and went and dumped it in the sink.

She stared at him. "You really know how to ruin a good time for little boys."

"Says the old biddy who canceled a little boy's _birthday party_," he parried, turning on her with a mixture of smug and hungry. He was in the mood for a fight and Constance was as good an opponent as any.

"Um," Father Jeremiah interjected. "I'll help clean up."

"I canceled the party for a very good reason that I don't have to discuss with _you_," Constance said loftily.

Michael looked at Ethan who looked back at him glumly. Then he was mad. How dare the grown-ups spoil their time together?

"Come on," Ethan said, taking the other little boy by the hand. "Let's go."

Michael knew he shouldn't wander off without telling anyone but the adults were all arguing and he didn't want any of their anger directed at him. He didn't even understand why they were suddenly mad at each other. So he let his friend lead him out of the room.

"Where are we going?" asked Michael.

"My room," said Ethan.

He let go of the other boy at the stairs and led him up the winding flight. "Do you like birds?"

Michael shrugged. "They're okay. I like cats. And lions. And tigers. And big cats. All big cats."

"Why?" asked Ethan. He didn't really care but it seemed the right thing to say.

"They're cool," said Michael. "They're fast and strong and big."

Ethan pushed the door open to his room and went in. "You wanna play chess or Star Wars or something?"

Michael wandered around the room, poking at this and that. Ethan's room was a reflection of the one Tate had when he was little so it was packed with evidence of his parents' affluence. Tate didn't know much about modern boys' toys though so everything, while nice, was stuck in the 80's.

"Hey, let's race cars," said Ethan. It had been a while since he'd tried to get anyone interested in his race track. He bounded over to the closet and started rummaging around.

Michael didn't know what he was talking about but assumed he would know soon so he didn't ask. He poked around instead. He shook a snow globe and leafed through a couple of books. Ethan didn't have many picture books on his bookshelf. Michael could read just fine but he liked looking at pictures.

"Do you got any comics?" he asked, then he caught sight of something wedged into the bookshelf.

He pulled it out. It was a photo album but it didn't look like Ethan's. The cover was overlaid with black lace. Silvery paint pen spelled out the word VIOLET. Michael opened the album. The first page was a scramble of words, some big and some small, all neatly wedged together with none overlapping. The words filled the whole page. "Violet" appeared several times, alongside words like "melancholia" and "malaise" and "dystopia". The back of that page was all covered in weird and sometimes disgusting stickers. He liked that page better.

"Don't touch that!" Ethan yelled, suddenly furious.

The other boy flickered and was beside him so quick Michael didn't even see him move. Ethan tried to snatch the photo album away but Michael, in his surprise, didn't let go of it. Surprise shifted quickly to anger.

"You don't gotta yell!" Michael yelled back.

"Let GO!" Ethan screamed and released a psychic wave that slammed into Michael; the same force that had slammed the door in Billie Dean's face.

Michael was thrown backward, narrowly missing the bookshelf. He hit the wall and fell to the floor, stunned. Ethan clutched the photo album and stared at him in horror. Then he dropped the album and scurried over to the heap of child, who was beginning to stir and whine.

"Shh!" Ethan said, touching his back gingerly. He looked at the door, suddenly very scared. Did anyone hear? "Shh! It's okay. That didn't hurt."

Michael started to cry. Ethan panicked and started to cry too.

"Shh!" he insisted. "We'll get in trouble and you'll- you'll never get to come again!"

Michael pushed himself up and opened his mouth and really started to wail. Ethan thought about putting his hand over the other boy's mouth but that might make things worse. So he got up and ran for the door.

He fast-stepped to the stairs and skipped most of them as well. He ran to the kitchen where he found the adults still arguing.

"Michael fell down!" he said.

All three looked at him. His tears and panicked expression spurred them all to action. Constance moved fastest.

"Where is he?" she said, one part concern and one part threat. "Take me to him."

Fresh tears ran down Ethan's face. He should have told Michael what to say before he left him. "He's in my room," he said.

He was hoping they would all go there without him and he could just sneak away to the attic or basement but his mother grabbed his arm tightly and made him come along with them. Father Jeremiah noticed but since Chad didn't seem to care, the priest didn't say anything. He obviously had a lot to learn about how the neighbors and the Langdons got along.

When they got to Ethan's room Michael was where he'd fallen and he was still bawling. He had his arm held close to his middle and it was purple all around the wrist.

"What on earth happened!" Constance shrilled. She hurried over and crouched beside her grandson. "Oh, sweetheart!"

"We were," Ethan said, torn between worry for Michael and fear for self. "Just jumpin' on the bed. And he fell off."

The bed was quite a distance from where Michael was. Chad gave Ethan a Look. Father Jeremiah was too concerned for Michael to notice the distance or the exchange of glances.

"We should get him to the hospital," he told Constance. "That wrist looks broken."

She nodded and then said to Michael gently: "We're gonna take you to the doctor, sweetheart. He'll make it all better."

Michael sniffled wetly. Father Jeremiah moved in and scooped the boy up.

"Ethan, apologize!" Chad demanded. He didn't want his reputation as a parent sullied by Tate's bad manners.

"Sorry," Ethan said dutifully and mournfully. "Sorry, Michael. I really, really am."

Michael didn't say anything as Father Jeremiah carried him out. Constance leveled a cold stare at Ethan, who fidgeted. Then she left too. Chad and Tate looked at each other. Chad folded his arms.

"It was an accident," Tate said with an earnest and tearful look.

Chad arched a brow and lowered his chin. "You're too old to be having 'accidents', baby boy."

"We were just playing around."

"That's what you said when you bit Patrick," reminded Chad.

Now Tate folded his arms but it was more of a self-hug. He was beginning to feel distinctly like he was in trouble. His eyes watered. "He can still come over though, right?"

Chad shrugged. "That will be up to your mother. _I_ don't control where he goes."

"Am I in trouble?"

"Oh yeah."

The tears filling Tate's eyes spilled over. "Are you gonna tell Patrick?"

"No," said Chad. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You are. You can tell Patrick _and_ me at the same time. And may I suggest you try telling the truth?"

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

"Two weeks, two weeks" is from the movie _The Money Pit_. Technically it's a comedy but it's any homeowner's worst nightmare.

So now we know where Violet's scrapbook got to: Tate took it as a souvenir. He just keeps it closer than his treasure cave. It's the same album, by the way, that Patrick was looking at 3 weeks before Christmas 2017, when Rubber Man entered Tate's room.

Next chapter: Tate's first day of freshman year sucks. Big time.


	6. Chapter 6 - First Day at Westfield High

Author's Note:

Normally I don't post chapters this quickly but this is a special thing for someone. So don't miss the previous chapter I posted if you're following this as I post it.

Read this while listening to _Mad World_ (original version) by Gary Jules, followed by the Deadcom Remix of the same song. I know that might sound strange but humor me.

* * *

**1991**

Going back to school for Tate was difficult. He'd dropped out the year before and had gotten used to getting up when he wanted. He was used to freedom. Going back after discovering the outside world was like being sentenced to prison. But the school board was threatening him with truancy action so his mother insisted. It wasn't fair: He did so well on his tests that they passed him through even though he'd missed more than half of his 8th grade year. They didn't even require him to attend summer school. But they still thought he needed to be physically present, blending with the herd every day of high school.

It was everyone's first day but to Tate it felt like he was the only one who didn't belong. Walking down the wide main hallway felt like slow motion. Everywhere around him there were teenagers in groups, laughing and walking and talking and goofing off. They'd never been out in the world beyond school. They were still asleep. They had no clue they were trapped and just beyond the glass doors - an imaginary line - lay freedom.

People jostled past him like they couldn't see him, bumping shoulders and shoving him out of their path. He got caught behind a human wall of teen friends who wanted to stroll leisurely but didn't want to let faster walkers pass them. He was late to home room because of them but there were three other students who walked in later than him.

What sucked was when the teacher took attendance Tate discovered he was in the wrong class. A computer error somewhere had him in the wrong place. He had to get up and leave with everyone staring at him like a bug under glass. He went down to the office and had to wait in line to get the issue sorted out. By the time he had his new schedule and knew where to be, half the period was over. He had to walk into another crowd of staring eyes and hand the disgruntled teacher his schedule and hall pass.

There were only two desks left open and they were both in the front row. He sank into one of them and tried to disappear into the roomy folds of his dad's sweater. If he couldn't see the other people, their looks wouldn't bother him as much. He stayed like that the rest of the class period. When the bell dismissed them, Tate was first out the door.

He made it through the rest of the morning without major mishap or getting lost. Just more of the rude jostling and inattention from earlier. Then came lunch.

Tate could smell the cafeteria before he even got there. It smelled like hot grease, dirty teenagers and mystery meat. Not very appetizing but he went inside anyway. The room was packed. At a glance it looked like every table was taken. The line through the kitchen to buy a meal stretched at least 100 people long. Tate had money to buy something but he wasn't going to go stand in that long line. He could see how the kids were pushing and horsing around and if one of them bumped into him or stepped on his foot he knew he had no patience for it.

So he skipped the line and went over to the vending machine in the corner. It was a black old thing, scuffed and sad, pushed back out of the way as an unhealthy alternative. There wasn't much to choose from so Tate bought a package of Cheet-ohs and some snack cakes and a soda. He stuffed everything into his backpack and went back outside. It was much quieter outside than in the cafeteria but the courtyard was still pretty crowded. All of the benches were taken. The only place to stand was over under a scrawny tree where a group of Latino boys were swapping stories.

Suddenly Tate didn't want to be in the courtyard at all. Everywhere he looked people were grouped up, enjoying themselves. Everyone seemed to know where they belonged; who they should be with. He was all alone. He left the courtyard and headed back down the wide corridor toward the front doors, past the bank of phones near the office. He expected a teacher to stop him as he made for the glass doorway but no one did.

He left the school and stepped out into bright sunshine. He hadn't realized how shaded and dimly lit the building was until he was out of it. The street was empty so he crossed quickly and ducked down the nearest alley. He went up the first driveway he came to and sat down next to the garage door. He pulled out his meager lunch and picked at it but he was so depressed by that point that he didn't feel like eating. So he just sat there holding the junk food.

Then other people started coming down the alley. Just a couple of kids at first - a guy in a black leather motorcycle jacket and a girl with black hair and shredded skin-tight jeans. They eyed Tate for a few moments then ignored him while they lit up cigarettes. A couple of minutes later they were joined by few more teens who were obviously not the cream of the crop. Stoners, new wavers, punks and future juvey candidates crowded into Tate's solitude and looked at him like he was the one who was intruding.

And he was. He'd unwittingly found the spot where all the smokers went after lunch to sneak a cigarette or three before they had to return to class. Tate didn't smoke. His mother did and he hated the way the smoke made his stomach feel when he was trapped with it. He didn't want to lose his alone time to a tobacco cloud so he pushed his uneaten lunch back into his backpack and got to his feet.

He wanted to leave but the crowd of kids had blocked the driveway and when he went to pass one of them, the guy stepped in his way. Tate was annoyed but he was willing to play pacifist and just step the other way but the guy did it again. And he did it without looking back or acknowledging Tate was even there. It was pretty obvious the guy knew he was but he was making it seem like coincidence that he was in Tate's way. The guy was testing him, seeing what he'd do. Would he back down and stay trapped in the driveway? Or would he bully his way through at the risk of a fight?

Tate didn't want a fight on the first day. His mother would blame him for it because he'd been so against going to school at all. She'd think he was just acting out just so he wouldn't have to come back. But he wasn't going to let the other kids pen him in. So he hunched up and shouldered his way past the guy who kept getting in his way. They collided hard; the other boy stumbled a little.

"Hey!" he said.

Tate kept walking without even glancing back.

"Asshole!" the guy called after him.

Tate flipped him off but still didn't look back or stop walking.

The boy he left behind rubbed his shoulder where Tate's backpack had struck him. Contrary to what Tate believed, the teen hadn't even seen the blond kid behind him before he was hit by him.

"What's his problem?" the teen asked no one in particular.

A few of his friends gave listless shrugs but nobody knew or cared.

...

Tate went back inside the school and paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust. The hall was more active now that most people had finished lunch. There were several students socializing and horsing around. He tried to avoid them.

He was hot in his sweater; it was early fall but in California that didn't mean much where the weather was concerned. Sitting outside then walking back had made Tate hot enough to sweat. The soda hadn't helped his thirst so he stopped by the drinking fountain for a long sip.

Something struck him hard from behind. The force of the blow made him drop his backpack and it shoved him into the drinking fountain painfully. He stumbled to the side and turned to see what was going on. Two older boys were wrestling over a folded piece of paper and had, in their playful struggle for domination and ownership of the note, bumped right into Tate. He grabbed his backpack and glared at them.

The guy who didn't have the folded paper noticed the dirty look. He broke off his attempts to get to it and lifted his chin to draw his buddy's attention to the freshman with a conspiratorial smile. The other guy, the red-head, looked over at him too.

"What are you lookin' at, dickweed?" the brown-haired taller guy said. His tone was rude but not threatening. Superior. His friend grinned.

"Not sure," Tate said, making an obvious assessment of the older boy. "I think it's what happens when mom forgets her 'morning after' pill."

"Ohhh," the red-head said in that 'you got burned' tone. He looked to see how his friend would respond.

Tate was too keyed up to notice. He saw the look in the brown-haired teen's eyes shift mean when he mouthed off. Tate tightened his grip on his backpack and tensed to fight or run.

"You're new," the older teen said. He sounded real friendly. Too friendly. "But it doesn't look like you've been given a proper welcome to Westfield."

Tate didn't trust him one bit. He took a step back but the older boys expected it. The brown-haired teen grabbed the shoulder of Tate's sweater. The boy's friend caught on immediately and closed in as well. They seized the smaller teen's arms and hauled him bodily toward the nearby bathrooms.

Fearing the dreaded swirly, Tate fought as hard as he could but they were stronger than he was and they outnumbered him. But they didn't take him to the boys' bathroom. Instead they pulled him over to the girls' bathroom. When he realized where he was going Tate put his feet out and braced himself against the doorjamb. They couldn't all fit through the doorway at once so the older boys tried to shove him in but the position was too awkward; Tate had too much leverage.

The brown-haired boy sorted the situation out quickly: They retreated, robbing Tate of his wall. Then the brown-haired guy grabbed him around the waist from behind and, walking backward, toted him quickly in. Despite a fierce struggle from Tate, the other boy carried him clear back to the back of the room, sending two girls squealing into the hall. The bully kicked open one of the stalls and dropped Tate onto the toilet. He retreated. Tate flailed off balance and fell to the floor, knocking his head against the paper dispenser.

The bullies' laughter retreated from the bathroom. Tate floundered on the floor for a moment, thrown off by the weight of his backpack and the too-loose sweater. He pushed himself out of the stall and got to his feet just as three girls came in. They took one look at him and they all started laughing. He blushed from his hairline all the way down his neck. He dodged past them, out into the hall. He went directly to the boys' bathroom and locked himself in the stall furthest from the door.

He sat there, unhappy and angry, fighting back tears. It was a struggle he was determined to win. He was _not_ going to cry at school, especially not on the first day.

Eventually he got his feelings under control. Then boredom began to seep in. He read the various things written on the stall walls. Nothing inspiring. One person tried to be clever and insult the people who read the things on people wrote on restroom walls. Tate thought that was really stupid because if someone reading it was dumb, the person who read it then wrote more must truly be a loser.

Bored with the bathroom and getting overheated, Tate decided to leave the stall. He took his backpack over to the sinks and set it on the floor. Then he pulled the sweater off, over his head. The air was cool and gave him a rash of goose bumps. He put the sweater down on his backpack and checked the mirror. He smoothed his hair down. He looked half as big without his dad's sweater. Most of the other boys he'd seen in his morning classes had at least 2 inches of height on him. Some had facial hair. He ran his hand over his smooth chin. No trace of a whisker. He'd even tried using his mother's shaver because he'd heard that facial hair would grow in faster if you shaved it. It hadn't worked.

He sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair, messing up the smooth-down he'd just given it. The bell rang. He had to go to his next class. He really didn't want to. As dull as the washroom was, he liked it better than the fishbowl of piranhas he had to wade back into. He shoved his sweater into his backpack and zipped it up. Then, shouldering the pack, he headed out with the spirit of a man on his way to death row.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

So here we are at Chapter 6 and you're probably thinking: Oh, wow. This next chapter's the last one this Episode.

Wrong.

See, it's a well-known fact that authors can't count. Just look at many of the so-called trilogies out there. Many number 7 or more books. Well, when I wrote this I forgot how to count too so instead of 7 chapters, we'll be having 9.

Next chapter: Moira gets friendly with the house's potential buyer and we find out if Tate's going to quit therapy.

Oh, and: **American Horror Story: Coven **premiers tonight (10-9-13)! I will be watching. I cannot promise it won't have any influence this fic because it's writing itself, with the help of your comments. I'm just here to play word processor.

And I have to say Jessica Lange + Angela Bassett + Kathy Bates = Heaven. I don't care if they just stand there on those stools the whole time looking superior. My eyes are full of black lacy hearts for the trinity.


	7. Chapter 7 - Schooled

**2018**

Abernathy Ambrose regarded the fiery-haired young woman who was standing so close. They were in the kitchen at the island, waiting for the realtor to return with the paperwork that Ambrose would need to sign. Soon Murder House would belong to him.

"How long have you been with the household?" Ambrose asked.

"Years," answered Moira. "I know this house in... and out."

The corners of his mouth twitched in a hint of a smile and his eyes drifted down to the hem of her short black skirt. "I'm sure you do."

She lifted her chin, taking the statement as a compliment. As much as she liked to fault men for their ravenous sexual appetites, she did like the attention they paid her. It was a cheap thrill. Mr. Ambrose was certainly the oldest man she'd had on her list to seduce but he wasn't unattractive. He was mature but he possessed poise and definition. He had chiseled features and a severe aura to him that most of the men who set foot in Murder House didn't have. She found him intriguing.

"You'll keep me on your..." Moira glanced meaningfully at his crotch. "Staff, then?"

His eyes roamed her curvaceous frame. "You should know that I'm a very strict employer. I expect nothing less than perfection."

She tipped her head and ran the tip of her tongue over her plump lower lip. "I love a man who's strict." She adjusted one of her garters and was pleased to note he watched her every move.

"Here we are!" the broker said as she returned with a hand full of papers. "I don't know how they slipped out of the folder but I found them."

She brought the papers over to the island and shuffled them into the folder that was spread out on the surface. Moira faded back out of the way but kept her smoldering gaze locked on the new owner of the house while he signed form after form. She was determined to succeed this time. Her body _would_ be discovered.

...

Ben stopped by Tate's bedroom that evening uncertain what to expect. He brought his duffle bag just in case. He knocked though the door was open, to announce his arrival. He looked in and saw his child-sized patient sitting in the center of the bed, legs crossed with his hands tucked into the hole they created.

"Hey, Doctor Harmon," he said in a tone better suited for a eulogy than a greeting.

Ben came into the room. "Hello, Tate. How are you?"

The boy gave a twitchy little shrug. "Okay, I guess." An obvious lie.

"Should I stay?" asked Ben, stopping only a few steps in. "Or would you like me to leave?"

"You can stay."

The therapist decided to take a seat on the edge of the bed, somewhat near the boy. He set the duffle bag down. "Do you want to keep going with dream therapy?"

Tate hesitated. "Yeah. I guess so. Even though you're a big asshole shit-bag for telling my fosters to drug me. That's fucked up."

Ben looked at him for a moment then nodded. "You're right, Tate. I apologize. Your trust is important to me. I promise in the future I won't discuss any treatment methods with them without you there as well."

The boy looked him up and down. The next thing he said sounded steady enough but his eyes were getting moist. "I forgive you, Doctor Harmon. I do. Because I believe you."

"I'm glad," said Ben and he meant it.

"Doctor Harmon?"

"Yeah?"

"I hurt Michael today."

Ben was about to get up but he slouched a little as he absorbed the implications of the confession. "What did you do, Tate?"

The boy peeked out at him through his unruly blond fringe. "He had Violet's scrapbook. He wouldn't give it back."

"That's not what I asked," said Ben. The evasion only made him more wary. "What did you do?"

"I just pushed him." Tate picked fuzz off the edge of this blanket.

Ben noticed how frayed the blanket had gotten over the past few weeks but he didn't have time to think about it. "Is he all right?"

Tate looked a little lost then; sad but in a distant way. "I don't know. Mama took him away. The priest guy said Michael's wrist looked broken so they were going to take him to the hospital."

"I see." Ben drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. "So. You pushed him hard enough to break his wrist?"

Tate plucked a fuzzy chunk from the blanket and rolled it between his fingers. He didn't look at Ben. "I think the wall broke his wrist."

Ben's eyes widened. "You threw him against a wall?"

The doctor preferred to keep a mild demeanor at all times around his patients but his acting skills were stretched thin with that. It occurred to him that he should feel some sort of paternal outrage and/or anger but... he didn't. He never considered Michael his son, not before Ben died and not now. But the idea of any child being shoved into a wall hard enough to break bones bothered him.

Tate frowned at the blanket. A fat tear rolled down one cheek. "I didn't mean to. He wouldn't let go."

Ben had to think. Tate misinterpreted his silence as a bad sign.

"What if she never lets him come over again?" he asked, panic rising in his voice. "She would do something like that."

"Calm down, Tate" Ben said."It's almost October. If she doesn't come by before then we can always pay her and Michael a visit."

The words worked like magic. Tate relaxed and even smiled a little. "You're right! I keep forgetting it's so close." He scooted around under the covers and got comfortable. "Hey, doc? Did they make you do drugs when you were in the loony bin?"

"Quite a bit, at first," said the doctor smoothly even though the subject change was out of the blue. He was used to it, from Tate. "I was... a very angry young man. Before I could work on the issues I had, I needed to calm down and I couldn't back then. Not without help."

The revelation was intriguing to Tate but before he could ask more about it Chad came in. He didn't even bother knocking since the door was already open.

"So you've decided to do it?" he asked the boy.

Ben found the wording of the question interesting. It was like Chad already knew the answer and was verifying it rather than sorting it out for the first time. Ben knew the man hadn't been listening in; he'd sensed his approach well before he arrived.

"Yeah," Tate answered. Then: "You were right, Chad."

The ego stroke made Chad smile. "I'm glad you've decided to be sensible for once." He moved over to the side of the bed and rearranged the blankets just so. Then he smoothed Tate's hair just so. "All right. Have productive dreams, I suppose. Good night. Good night, Ben."

The doctor nodded and Chad shut the door behind himself on his way out. Tate watched the door for a moment to be sure he was really gone, then he scrubbed his fingers through his hair, messing it up again. He looked back to Ben.

"I've been dreaming about school again," he said. "Last night I dreamt I was stuck on the second floor. The power was out. It was dark and - this is weird - but it was dusty. Like nobody'd been in it for years. There was nobody in it but there was stuff. Like... desks and things. Everything had this weird feeling, like when you're stuck in a closet. Only nothing was locked. It just felt... crowded. Stuffed. Stifling."

Ben dug out his notebook and found a pencil and jotted a few notes about the dream down on a fresh page somewhere toward the middle. He would find it later. "You were the only person in the school?"

Tate thought about it. "No... There were people downstairs only I was hiding from them. I think maybe I'd get in trouble if they found me up there. I don't think anyone was supposed to be up there. Which is weird too. Why would that be?"

"Dreams can be hard to understand," said the therapist. "Sometimes they're just dumping grounds for your worries and fears and all of the commercial garbage you take in from movies and the internet."

"Pfft," Tate said with a crooked smile that dimpled his right cheek deeply. "I know all that shit, doc. Now tell me something I don't know."

His attitude chafed Ben. So he hit him with the truth. "Nobody stuck here remembers their deaths, Tate, but there are things I think you're actively trying to block. If you don't face what you did at that school, you're never going to get any peace."

Tate blinked a few times. "Oh." He smiled again but the look was hollowed out by the fresh tears that framed it. "Yeah. You're probably right."

Ben felt guilty but he couldn't let it show. "I think it's about time for bed, don't you?"

"Yeah," said Tate. He scooted down and rolled over so his back was to Ben. "'Night, Doctor Harmon."

Ben felt even worse, even though he knew the move was intended to make him feel that way. "Good night, Tate."

He picked up his book and pretended to read but he couldn't concentrate. It took Tate a long time to sleep.

**...**

**1992 - January**

It was lunchtime but as usual Tate was skipping eating. The first month of school he hid in the bathroom during lunch but once he discovered the library was open then, he never went anywhere else. Hardly anybody went there at that time and the few people who did generally kept quiet and to themselves.

Tate had found a great book that day. It was a thick one that had all the major collected works of Edgar Allen Poe in one place. He had it spread open on the reading table and was devouring _The Conqueror Worm_ with great interest when there was a jostling beside him. He glanced up and to his disgust saw Douglas moving into the seat right beside him.

Douglas was bigger than Tate, with a reddish-brown buzz-cut and a scar in his left eyebrow. He was a football player and he was never without his cronies, Vance and Scott, who were not players but had brains of equal size. They grabbed the chairs across the table from Tate and sat down. There were plenty of open tables in the library. Their choice to sit where they did had nothing to do with availability. Tate decided to ignore the Neanderthals. That's what his mother had told him to do: Ignore them. He tried to focus on the page before him but the best he could do was pretend.

Then someone kicked his chair under the table. It was impossible to tell who since they were all pretending to ignore Tate right back. He stared at his book. Someone kicked his chair again, hard enough to scoot him out a little. The legs of the chair made a screechy, hooting noise that attracted the attention of the teacher on duty, Mr. Carmichael. Tate scooted his chair back in as quietly as he could.

Around him, the other boys talked quietly but enthusiastically about girls, rating them on a scale of 0 to 1 - with zero being "wouldn't fuck" and one being "would". Tate propped his head with one hand in a covert attempt to cover one ear so he could concentrate better. Someone kicked his chair again. This time when he went to scoot back in, Douglas grabbed his Poe book. The bold break in social convention surprised Tate so much that he didn't know what to do at first. He just sat there affronted as Douglas rifled carelessly through the pages.

"Hey, look," the guy said to his friends. "Taint's got himself some purty poetry." He snickered at his own joke. "The Conqueror Worm. How fucking gay is that? A poem all about dicks."

His cronies laughed.

"You're a dick!" Tate snarled and grabbed the book.

Only Douglas didn't let him - he held onto the book. Between the two of them there was a loud rip. Douglas got the book; Tate got _The Conqueror Worm_. And that got the teacher on his feet.

"What are you boys doing?" Mr. Carmichael said sternly as he came over to see for himself.

The damaged book got all four of them evicted from the library. Tate and Douglas got sent to the office. If Mr. Carmichael had known better he probably would have gone with them but he didn't.

"If I get a paddling over this," Douglas said threateningly. "Your ass is grass."

"Fuck you," Tate growled.

And that's when Douglas tripped him. Tate stumbled but caught himself. He didn't think about his next actions. He just went on impulse and threw a punch at the bigger guy. He landed a solid blow in the other guy's right kidney, causing him to double over. Tate seized the advantage and jumped on him. They went down in a heap with Tate punching whatever he could land his knuckles on. Most of the strikes were ineffective but for just a moment Tate had the upper hand.

Then Douglas recovered in a jolt of adrenaline. He outweighed Tate so he rolled to the side, reversing their positions so that he was on top. By that time there was a huge crowd of students gathered around. They jeered and cheered Douglas on as he delivered a rain of blows down on the smaller teen. Tate defended himself as best he could but it was an unfair fight.

Suddenly Douglas was gone. Teachers were breaking up the fight and the crowd; one of them had hauled the bigger boy off of him. Tate rolled to his side and curled into a fetal position, clutching his bruised middle. He couldn't get up because Douglas had pounded the breath out of him. He tasted blood and could feel more running down his face from his nose and maybe the hurting part of his lip. Tears leaked out too. It took a couple of landed fish gulps of air before he could free his lungs.

A teacher helped him up and escorted him to the office. He didn't see Douglas. He was taken back to the nurse, who handed him a wet wash cloth and pointed him unsympathetically to the mirror above the sink. He cleaned himself up, wincing as he inspected the damage. His lip was split. When he mentioned it to the nurse, she handed him a paper towel filled with ice and went back to reading her magazine at her desk.

Tate lay down on the little cot with his ice and waited for his mother. He heard her long before he saw her. She loudly reamed the front desk help for their inability to protect the children on their campus. And then he had to walk out with her after that, in front of everyone who'd heard. Everybody stared at them. Constance walked out like royalty. Tate wished he could disappear.

Despite her performance, Constance wasn't thrilled with her son. They fought the whole way home about whose fault the fight was and what started it. He blamed Douglas. She blamed Tate. When they got home she ordered him to his room but he'd already planned to go there anyway so he slammed the door extra hard when he got there, just so she knew he was mad at her.

He went over to his desk and dropped into the chair with a world-weary sigh. He sat there for a few moments, hurting in several ways. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the torn pages from the Poe book and smoothed them on the desktop. He knew he should give them back to the library but he felt like he'd earned them. They even had a smear of his blood on them.

He read the poem again, able to concentrate now, then he put it in his drawer. Then he took out the razor blade he kept stashed there and looked at it. He'd used it a few times now; there was some dried blood on it already. He pushed his shirt up and looked at his arm. Most of the cuts were healed. The only ones that weren't were so faint they were almost nonexistent.

He slashed a strong line into his arm. It stung and bright red blood welled up. It felt like crying only better. The blood dripped on the floor. He slashed another line, not quite so deep. It stung less. The two rivers of red ran beside each other then blended into one. Fat red drops splattered on the floor now. Teardrops fell too.

Tate just couldn't wrap his brain around how someone as awful as Douglas could have friends or people who cared about what he did. Half the school loved Douglas just because he played football. That was all. It didn't matter that Tate was smarter than him or nicer than him or more creative or, in general, of greater value to the world than that thug. No, Douglas still got ahead in life while Tate was stuck in his bedroom, slashing his wrists.

He whimpered without meaning to and that made him mad. But he couldn't stop crying. He dropped the razor blade in the drawer numbly, blubbering and trying desperately to stop. He sucked it up after a moment and realized he got blood on his jeans. The cuts had swollen shut so they weren't making a bigger mess. He decided to blame the stains on the fight if his mother asked. But she probably wouldn't. She didn't last time.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Did you watch Coven? I did. Oh, my. I hope it keeps on as good as the opener. Being someone from pre-Katrina New Orleans, it's fun to see Crescent City in the media again. Talk about a place full of fun ghosts. Nothing like hanging out in St. Louis #1 to chase the blues away.

I wish I could say things are going to get happier with the next chapter but... They're not. Next is a flashback to two weeks before the WHS shootings. If you can soldier through the next chapter I promise I'll play nice(r) for the rest of the Episode.


	8. Chapter 8 - Demon Alcohol

Song suggestions for the following chapter: _Reptile Theme by Anima Scream (Juno Reactor cover)_ and _Orion by Metallica_ for the first part and _Sinnerman by Extra Fancy_ for the second. I suggest playing Anima Scream before you read, not during, because it's pretty obnoxious. But it was how Tate was feeling when he first got home.

_Demon Alcohol_ is a song by Ozzy Osbourne and could also be played with this same-named chapter.

You can find other music for this episode in my Profile.

* * *

**1994 - April 5**

Anger. Rage. It burned in Tate's middle and crawled around his guts with the fury of a trapped scream. His pulse was pounding with hatred. It made him dizzy. He thought his heart might actually seize up and stop from so much anger. It wasn't a particular situation or thing or day or person. It was the accumulated stack of shit that had piled up inside him for so long, locked in and unable to get free.

It was the people. People were so fucked up. They'd pretend to be good; they'd polish their kind qualities and think of themselves as likable and all the while they were the same person who would cut you off in traffic or trample you for a Christmas toy. Tate had decided there were two kinds of people in the world: Smart, intelligent, sensitive and introspective people like himself (the minority) and the brain-dead skin-bags that shuffled through life not thinking any further than the space they were in.

Those were the majority, the Christmas toy zombies who were destroying his reality. And they were everywhere. They outnumbered the handful of truly decent, caring, beautiful souls in the world. It just wasn't fair that people who had so much to offer should be treated like crap by people who were so inferior. Pearls before swine. That the asshole, selfish bastards in the world should get ahead, get all the chances, the money, the happy endings. It wasn't just that the world wasn't fair, it was absolutely unfair. A perverse joke on the handful of decent people forced to live in it.

Tate was sick of all the injustice. It started here, with his siblings and their situation. Their lives. But the more he looked around, the more he realized it wasn't just his family. They were just the prototype in a world of human monsters and their victims. Everywhere he looked there was more unfairness to piss him off.

So Tate had done something he knew he shouldn't. But he'd had a _really_ shitty day at school. Nobody else was there when he got home; nobody but the dead people. And Tate didn't want to see them.

He'd been experimenting with drugs since school started that year but even a pinstripe joint was difficult to get a hold of right now so his thoughts went naturally to what was on hand, in his house. The easiest to get to was something he'd been told not to touch since he little: Mama's alcohol.

Constance was so sure she had her children trained that she didn't even keep her liquor locked up or hidden. That would be too much trouble when she wanted it. So he poured himself a tea glass of her favorite bourbon. He then carefully replaced the missing quantity with water from the tap, a secret he'd learned in overheard conversations at school. He swirled the fluids around to mix them. Mama didn't mark the bottles so he couldn't be sure it was exactly the right level but it looked right to him.

He put the bottle back carefully with the label facing the right way in the cabinet. Just as it should be. The perfect crime. Proud of himself, the teen collected his glass. He looked in it. The liquor was brown and smelled like wood varnish. He thought about putting sugar in it but he wasn't sure what that would do to the potency. He'd seen his mother put it in things before but he wanted maximum effect and when Constance wanted that, she drank straight from the bottle.

Tate took a breath and took a drink. He swallowed, gagged and coughed once. His eyes watered fiercely. When he breathed out, his stomach flipped over and he thought he might puke. Drinking straight room-temperature bourbon was a lot like being hit in the gut with a board. He set the glass down on the counter and took a quick drink from the faucet. That did nothing to kill the taste.

Thinking fast, he grabbed some crackers from the pantry and ate one. That helped a lot. By the time he finished the cracker he was ready to try the bourbon again. He was determined to drink the whole thing, no matter how bad it tasted. And he did - in under five minutes.

He rinsed the glass out and set it in the sink. His middle was still burning but it was a whole new kind of fire. It didn't feel any better than anger though. It kind of made him nauseous. He left the kitchen wondering what he was supposed to be feeling. Mama drank when she got really upset so he assumed it made her feel better.

Tate thought maybe laying down would help his stomach so he went upstairs. By the time he got to his room the outside of him was feeling numb. The icky feeling in his middle had subsided a bit but it still burned like crazy. He shut the door and leaned against it. His head was swimming and he was feeling number by the second. He smiled. He just had to be patient, that was all. It wasn't like pot or whip-its; alcohol was a slower high.

He finally pushed away from the door and took a step forward and stumbled to the side as gravity suddenly shifted the other way. "Whoa," he said, stopping. Then he took a smaller step forward and nearly fell the other way. He grinned. It was really funny that he couldn't walk straight. He took another step with the idea of heading over to his desk but the world tilted again and he staggered to the side and ran right into his bookshelf. A couple of things fell to the floor.

Tate laughed. He laughed so hard that he had to hold onto the bookshelf to keep from knocking himself over. More things fell off the top shelf and he laughed even harder. Soon he was laughing so hard he just sank to the floor and laughed till his sides hurt.

When he stopped laughing and could breathe again he looked around, wondered why he'd laughed so hard about falling, then laughed even more about how stupid it was to laugh for no reason.

"What are you doing?"

Tate looked over and saw Mrs. Nora standing near the door and frowning in a very disapproving way.

"Laughing?" he grinned.

Her expression darkened. "You're drunk."

"Am I?" Tate asked brightly. "I thought I was just... happy."

She moved closer, her long skirts brushing the floor as she glided over to him. He expected her to come down to his level but she didn't. She stayed towering high above him, both hands gripping her handkerchief tightly.

"I cannot believe this!" She looked away, tears in her eyes. "This is absolutely reprehensible. Inappropriate!" She looked at him again and one of those tears slid down her pale cheek. "You are too young to be this... this..." She looked him over and her chin set firmly. "I will not allow you to go the same way all the other men in this house do."

She bent then and hooked a hand under his nearest elbow. He let her help him up but he had to lean on her to stay up. She staggered under his teenaged weight but she got him over to the bed with effort. There Nora shoved him around until she got him mostly atop it. Her work amused him, brought his dimples out. The ceiling was spinning so he let her pull his Doc Marten's boots off without a fight.

She left him for a few moments and he watched the ceiling whirl. His whole body felt like it was spinning too. He hummed tunelessly, trying to imitate a merry-go-round. Then Mrs. Nora was back, pulling him up into a sitting position at the edge of the bed.

"You know I love you," she said in a strange tone. There were more tears in her eyes. "But we have to get those demons out."

Tate sluggishly identified hers as that tone mothers use when they're about to hit you hard for your own good. He was too drunk to understand why he would hear it from Nora, of all people. She never hit him.

Suddenly had hold of his hair. She shoved his head down between his knees where he saw the trash can she'd put there without his notice. Then she jammed her fingers down his throat. He gagged and tried to pull back but she held tight to his hair and shoved her slim fingers deeper into his mouth.

He dimly registered that she wasn't wearing her usual compliment of rings. Then he vomited.

Once the flow started it kept up on its own. She relaxed her grip on his head and used that hand to gently smooth his hair. Then she pet his back until he rid himself of the bourbon he hadn't yet digested. Once he'd purged completely she removed the trash can. He teetered on the edge of the bed, numb and stunned. She returned smelling clean and carrying pajamas for him.

He didn't resist as she changed his clothes. Nora done it so many times before that he was able to cooperate even though he had absolutely no coordination left in him. She made sure to clean his face before putting his shirt on. She was very quiet the whole time and she never lost that pinched look. Finally she had him tucked in.

"Never, ever, _ever_ do this again!" she said emphatically. "You're better than this! You're smarter than this!"

He reached for her, waving a hand at her in an attempt to grab her dress but she was too far away. "I wanna hug."

She huffed an impatient sigh. "You aren't listening to a word I'm saying." She tsked her tongue and then leaned in to give him a quick hug. "Don't ever do this again," she insisted when she released him. "Or I will break every last bottle of alcohol in the house. "

"No!" Tate's eyes rounded in horror. "Don't do that!"

"Then promise me to never do this again." She lowered her chin and met his eyes with stern sincerity. "Promise me."

He couldn't resist such a direct demand from her. "I promise I won't do this again."

She smiled again, a real smile. "Go to sleep now. I'll sit with you."

And she did. It was less for his comfort and more for his protection. In his vulnerable state the house was as dangerous to him as it had been the day she'd saved him from Thaddeus. Nora sat patiently by Tate's side the whole night, keeping silent vigil.

...

Tate slouched at the kitchen table two days later looking at the huge mason jar of watered down bourbon before him. His hands were tucked between his legs as far as they would go and he had his shoulders hunched up to his jaw.

"I don't want it," he said unhappily.

His mother was standing right beside him, hovering over him with her arms folded and a cigarette in one hand. "Yes, you do. If you didn't want it you wouldn't have taken a third of it already. Drink your drink."

Tate glowered at the glass jar. Tears stung his eyes. "I don't want it, mama."

She slapped the table hard enough to make the jar bounce. He flinched and sank deeper into his sweater.

"Drink it!" she snarled through clenched teeth. Her eyes were wide, wild with that look that meant violence. "You ruined it waterin' it down! You're gonna sit there till you finish all of it!" She turned away and sucked viciously on her cigarette before turning on him again. "Do you really think I'm so stupid I wouldn't notice?"

"I'm sorry, mama," he whimpered. He really didn't want to drink the stuff in the jar. He didn't want Mrs. Nora to break everything and he didn't want to taste bourbon without crackers to get him through.

"Sorry!" she laughed mockingly. "You'll be sorry if you don't start drinkin'!"

Tears dripped off his chin as he reached for the big jar. He brought it to his lips and took a little sip. It tasted awful, even watered down. He made a face and looked up at her pitifully. He was met with stone.

"Drink it _all_," she said.

He tried to get a bigger drink down, to speed up the process. He gagged and belched and looked at her again, more pathetic than before. "Mama..." he said, crying in earnest now.

"Drink it!" she screamed. She smashed her cigarette in the ashtray. He cowered in the chair but she grabbed his hair with one hand and grabbed the jar with the other. She shoved the rim of the jar into his mouth, crushing his upper lip against his teeth painfully. "DRINK IT!"

She tilted the jar and liquor poured into his mouth. He couldn't breathe. He swallowed as fast as he could but there was too much; it was half a bottle of bourbon. He gagged and inhaled involuntarily. He choked as bourbon scalded his windpipe. She didn't let go of him and she didn't take the jar away. She was still screaming at him but it ceased to make sense to him. He coughed and sputtered. Bourbon went down his front and in his ears thanks to the way she was holding his head.

Then the jar was empty. She slammed it down so hard it was a wonder it didn't break. Tate folded over himself, coughing and retching and very close to throwing up. Irregular sobs punctuated his gasps for air. She staggered back a step, breathing heavily. Her hair was falling slowly from its up-do.

"Get out of my sight," she said in a low, mean tone that implied if he didn't move fast she might just do him worse.

Tate scrambled out of the chair and out of the room, sobbing and coughing as he went. He hit the stairs at a run and got about halfway up before stumbling. He went the rest of the way on all fours, righting himself only once he'd gotten to the landing. He was already feeling that woozy-numb feeling burning out from his stomach.

He staggered down the hall, past Addie's room. She was hiding behind the half-open door and she watched him pass with wide eyes. She knew he was in Big Trouble and she knew better than to interfere. The best she could do was give him sympathy in passing. He didn't notice. He went into his room and leaned on the door to shut it. He hiccuped and burped and sank to the floor with one hand clapped over his mouth. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Then he remembered Mrs. Nora had made him throw up before. He crawled over to the trash can and stuck his head over it. Of course he didn't feel like throwing up then. So he did what she'd done: He jammed his fingers down his throat. That did the trick. He heaved until his sides ached. Then he fell over on his side. He rolled sluggishly away from the trash bin and looked up at the ceiling with eyes that felt raw and swollen from crying.

He didn't know how long he lay there before he saw Mrs. Nora looking down at him sadly.

"Noooo," he groaned. "I didn't... Mama... Mama made me..."

She stooped down next to him and stroked his cheek. "I know."

Tate wished he could articulate his relief and remaining concerns but his brain was too cottony. "Doan break the boddles," he slurred.

"I should," she murmured. "It would serve her right."

"Noooo!" he objected in alarm. "She'll blame _me_!"

Nora sighed. He was right. "I won't," she promised. "Come along. Let's get you up off of the floor."

Tate was all relief again. It felt so good to be reassured that he giggled a little. "I like the floor."

"You need to sleep," Nora told him.

She took his nearest hand and pulled him into a sitting position. He slouched bonelessly.

"You're going to have to help me," she said. "I can't do this alone."

He grinned and latched onto her middle like he used to do when he was little. That didn't help. She pursed her lips and peered down at the drunk teenager hugging her. He smiled up at her cutely, dimples showing. She didn't like people when they were drunk but it was hard to be stern toward a look like that.

"Come along," she said again and sidestepped to the bed. Tate shuffled along with her, not letting go of her waist till they were there.

With her help he got up onto the mattress where he sprawled out. He was dizzy like last time. Dizzier. He felt Mrs. Nora undressing him and thought it was funny because he couldn't see her. But then he lifted his head and there she was. He let his head drop and the whole world bounced. His eyes felt like they were blinking at different rates. He giggled again.

"Try to sleep," Nora said to him once she got him changed.

He was three sheets to the wind by that time. He smiled at her lazily. "I love you, Mrs. Nora-mama. You're... perfect."

She gave him a tight smile. "If you say that when you're sober it will mean a lot more to me."

He sighed and shut his eyes briefly. The whole world was warm and fuzzy and rocking him. "I love you, you love me," he sang softly. Fortunately Nora didn't know the Barney song so she wouldn't give him grief later about singing it while drunk.

"Sleep," she urged softly.

As before, she stayed by his bedside the whole time he slept. It was the best she could do for him.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

If you've been reading this whole story you have probably noticed by now that there are mirrors scattered throughout the whole thing. Little areas where you might find yourself feeling like you've seen or heard it before. It's not a coincidence. This chapter is probably the only place you'll see the mirror-dark reflection right back-to-back because you are in the center of the story now.

Welcome to the middle.

It was pointed out to me after I posted this that April 5, 1994 was the day Kurt Cobain died. Kurt Cobain was Tate's idol. So. Now we know why Tate's day was so crappy. If he would've told me, I would've mentioned it to you sooner. But he was pretty upset at the time. Thanks, Queen Tora (aka The Cry-Wank Kid), for pointing that out to me.

Of course I promised last chapter to be nicer with the one after this so you can go hang out with Constance and Violet while they gossip. But next episode things get really ugly. So ugly, it needed to be a 2-part episode.

**American Horror Story 1.5: Fall (part 1 & 2) **will be taking you back to Westfield High. And I'm done with playing nice.


	9. Chapter 9 - About the House

**2018 **

Violet stood at the furthest point of the yard that she knew she could reach without getting thrown back into the house. The ornamental hedge that separated the lawn from that of the Langdon house next door formed a barrier but it wasn't the one she was concerned with. That one had a break in it she could see; she could easily step through if she was alive. The barrier she was leery of was the one she couldn't see but had tried to cross so many times that she had to believe in it. And yet there she was, ready to test that faith on Billie Dean's say-so.

The medium had told her before leaving that the barrier had expanded. She said she thought Michael was the reason the darkness over Murder House had spread. Violet wasn't so sure. Something her mother had said that morning had stirred memories that she wanted to talk to Constance about. October was still a week away and the teen girl didn't want to wait.

She took a breath and she took a step forward, her eyes crunching shut in anticipation. She expected to be transported back into the house but when she opened her eyes she was still in the yard. She took another step forward with her eyes open and smiled. She still wasn't in the house. Billie Dean was right: The barrier had expanded.

Violet's first impulse was to run clear across Constance's yard like a wild child but she resisted the urge and wondered why she even had it to begin with. She decided it was the false freedom. She was willing to accept that Billie Dean was also right about how far the barrier still extended which meant that she would run into the barrier again on the far side of the Langdon property.

She proceeded slowly but steadily, taking her time getting to the front porch. Even though it wasn't true freedom it was nice to be able to walk the short distance. She pressed the doorbell. A few moments later Father Jeremiah answered the door. He smiled pleasantly. Something about him reminded her of her father. The dark hair, maybe.

"Hi," she said with a polite little smile. "Is Constance here?"

"Yes," he said. "Violet, isn't it? Please come in."

He stood back out of the way. She entered the house and again felt a giddy little rush of excitement at being someplace that wasn't the same old scenery. It was strange to get so happy over so little.

"She's in the kitchen," said the priest as he led the way. Then, when they were at the doorway to the room: "Constance? Violet's here."

Violet followed him into the kitchen and into Constance's surprised gaze. She had a cute little apron on and a well-used oven mitt that she tugged off and set aside on the counter. She reached the other way to pluck a lit cigarette from a nearby ashtray.

"Violet," the older woman cooed. "What a... pleasant surprise." She emphasized the word 'pleasant' in a subtle way that let the girl know it wasn't all that pleasant. "What brings you here?"

Violet folded her arms loosely, feeling a little awkward. For some reason she'd assumed Constance would welcome her gladly. "I... just."

She glanced at Father Jeremiah. He caught the look and smiled. Then he quietly left them. He needed to check on Michael anyway. The boy had a broken wrist but that didn't keep him out of mischief.

"How did you know?" Constance demanded quietly as soon as she was sure he was out of earshot. "How'd you know you could come here?"

"Billie Dean told me the barrier expanded," said Violet, a little affronted.

"Dammit!" the older woman swore. She sucked on her cigarette and paced over to the window. "I told her not to tell anyone!"

Violet frowned and hugged herself tighter. "Why?"

"Did you tell anyone?" asked Constance, turning back to the girl with sudden fervor.

"No. But-"

The blonde woman swept over to her then, arms out in a way that made the long sleeves on her satiny shift dress look like floral printed wings. "Oh, Violet! You can't tell any of the others what you know!" She put cupped the girl's face in her hands. Smoke got in Violet's eyes from the close cigarette.

"I haven't told anybody," Violet said emphatically. She pulled away, a little freaked out by the way she was acting. "Why don't you want anyone to know?"

Constance looked back out the window then in a distracted way. "This house must stay safe, for Michael's sake."

Violet squinted at her. Had the woman gone completely off her rocker? "What are you talking about? Nobody wants to hurt Michael."

That brought Constance's attention back to the girl. "You have _no_ idea what you're sayin'," she said in a grave tone. Her jaw set as she refused to let her tears fall. "Some of the spirits in that place will hurt anything just because they can. Some... don't know their own strength."

"Well, I didn't tell anybody," Violet said again.

"You can't tell a soul! " insisted Constance. She put her cigarette out and folded one arm over her waist. The other hand settled on her own cheek as she gazed at the young woman. "Not even your beloved parents."

Violet's expression darkened. "My parents have problems of their own."

Constance's brows quirked. She loved gossip but she knew Violet didn't cross the barrier just to trash-talk her parents. "Why'd you come here, dear?"

"I wanted to talk to you about the house."

"Oh," said Constance. Her hand slipped from her face to rest on her collarbone. "What about it?"

"Can we sit?" When the woman nodded, Violet slid into a chair at the table. "My mom said something... it reminded me of something you said. She said she thinks the house makes people do things."

Constance realized she was holding her breath only when she it released it. She turned to put the kettle on the stove. "I know for a fact that house makes people do things."

"You said that back when my family was living there."

"I meant it," said Constance. "Some people believe haunted houses have... an identity of their own. That they can be angry or depressed or vengeful. The ghosts that inhabit it aren't its source but rather the other way around."

Violet looked over at the window then. She couldn't see the Victorian from where she was sitting. "I've been there for a while and it doesn't seem like it's got a personality to me."

Constance laughed, sharp and insulting. "Don't be a fool! That house is just as aware as you and I. It knows you're here."

"What about this one?" Violet challenged. "Is it aware?"

Constance went to fetch two mugs from the cupboard. "I don't know. I don't think so."

Violet shook her head stubbornly. "I don't buy that a house knows things."

"Child, don't be so arrogant," chided Constance. She pulled the silverware drawer out too roughly in her irritation; flatware jangled. "You've seen _so_ much yet you think you know it all." She got a spoon out and slammed the drawer shut. Then she turned to glare at Violet. She leaned back against the counter to stop herself going over and shaking the girl. "If you don't wake up and accept a few things about that place, you're gonna lose yourself to it."

"Why're you so upset?" asked Violet.

"Because," said Constance. She took a breath then realized there was no way she could sum up what she was thinking and feeling. She sighed. "Oh, Violet. There's still so much you don't understand. So much none of us understands."

"My mom believes the house is making my dad do... things."

Constance tipped her head, curiosity stirring. "Things?"

"He's sleeping in his office now," said Violet with a wince.

"Oh," said Constance softly.

"I think he's been seeing that girl he cheated on mom with," Violet went on, resentment stirring in the pit of her stomach.

"Did you see them together?"

Violet shook her head. "No. I haven't asked him either."

"Why not?" asked Constance. She lit another cigarette then offered Violet one.

"I don't want him to lie to me," Violet said as she took the cigarette.

Constance nodded sagely. "I saw them together," she said. She lit her cigarette then handed the lighter to the teenager.

"You did?" Violet took the lighter but she was too distracted to use it.

Constance nodded again. "They had that... thing... they call a baby with them." She brushed her fingertips with her thumbs like she could dust off the memory of the abomination.

"Thing..?" Violet was lost.

"Haven't you seen it?" asked Constance, surprised. "They were calling it 'Shelly'. It looked like a nightmare."

"No. I haven't seen it." Violet frowned. "I think I need to talk to my dad."

"The kettle's startin' to whistle," said Constance. "Do you want to stay for tea? Might as well be social since you came over."

The teen was a bit taken aback. When she first got there, the woman acted like Violet was the last thing she wanted to see. Now Constance seemed to want her to stay. Whatever. "Sure. I'll take some tea."

Constance fixed things up on a tray then paused to add a little brandy to her cup. Then she lifted the tea tray to bring it over.

"Do you think I could have some of that too?"

Constance paused and looked at her guest in surprise. "What? The brandy?"

Violet nodded. "It's okay. I'm over 21 now."

Constance lit up in dreamy smile. She saw herself reflected in the girl, and not for the first time. "Of course you can, Violet, darlin'. Just don't tell your parents _that_ either." She added a generous splash of liquor to the girl's cup as well, happy to indulge her kindred spirit. "I wouldn't want to be accused of leadin' anyone astray. But I personally feel there's nothin' wrong with a sip now and then. Braces the nerves."

She brought the tray to the table and set it between them before sitting down.

Violet gave her a faded smile as she reached for her cup. "It'll be our secret."

...

**That evening...**

"You know the house is pending sale," the real estate agent said as a formality. Technically he was a business liaison, not a broker. He was talking to his client on his hands-free earplug phone, a tiny piece of hardware that had earned him far more than its value. "So if there's any damage to the property, you're responsible for triple the cost over and beyond the rental fee. And you're fully responsible for carrying insurance."

On the other end Nick Carver smiled wolfishly. He had an older smartphone. It worked for his needs and had a handy flashlight app that looked great on tv. "I understand. Same deal as last time. We're covered."

"We'll have paperwork for you to sign Monday," the agent said, thumbing through the thick folder he had on the Montgomery Mansion. "You'll have permission to access the house Halloween night, from eight to midnight. I'll see you there. Make sure to bring those insurance papers."

Nick gave his staff the thumbs up to his crew and nodded even though the agent couldn't see him. "I will. Thank you very much."

He hung up and looked around at the hopeful faces crowding his office. "Mission: Paranormal will be returning to Murder House, Halloween 2018!"

Cheers broke out, deafening in the tiny room.

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

Poor Jeremiah. He keeps getting kicked out of Constance's private conversations. Men are just 2nd class citizens in the Langdon household, I'm afraid.

This episode ranked "Bram Stoker" on _I Write Like..._

Next episode and the one after it are directly tied to each other, being spread out over October. Brace yourself because it's getting ugly.


End file.
